


A Christmas Tree Story

by AZGirl



Series: A Christmas Story [3]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Friendship, Gen, Good Intentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZGirl/pseuds/AZGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A misunderstanding on Christmas Day may destroy Gibbs and Tony's friendship forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of sequel to A Christmas Day Story. Reading that story is not necessary, but it might help.
> 
> Potential spoilers for anything up to 9.11 Newborn King, an ep which makes this story AU.

**ooooooo**

**Chapter One: Lost and Found**

Watching the flames dance in Gibbs' fireplace, I contemplate making some excuse to leave early. Dinner was excellent, as always, with prime rib, potatoes au gratin topped with bacon crumbles, and some green beans.

I'd tried my best to pull myself out of the depression I'd fallen into at this morning's discovery, but simply couldn't even begin to get past the fact that the one tangible reminder of my mother that I had besides a handful of photos was gone forever. What almost upset me more was that I hadn't even noticed it was gone until it was far, far too late to do anything about it. Far too late to do anything but mourn its loss.

This morning, when I'd gone to the hall closet by my front door to get out my mother's candleholder, I'd discovered it to be missing from its usual spot. Thinking back to when my apartment had been vandalized and robbed, I didn't panic right away. When I'd cleaned my place up at the time, it was entirely possible I'd put the beat up cardboard box that held the Christmas tree shaped candleholder away somewhere else by accident.

Only after spending the next I don't know how long thoroughly searching every single nook and cranny, shelf, cabinet and closet in my place – anywhere I could've possibly put the box – and _not_ finding any sign of it, did I freak out. Why would those punks steal a beat up cardboard box that contained nothing of any real value to anyone except a son who'd lost his mother much too early in life and then have his whole life change so completely afterwards?

ooooooo

Five months ago, a quartet of young thugs had gone on a rampage throughout my apartment complex vandalizing and robbing the homes of eight people, including mine. Not only had each place looked like a tornado had gone through it, but each one of us had had various not-easily, if at all, traceable items stolen.

I'd been the most fortunate of those whose places had been ransacked and only had a significant portion of my DVD collection stolen. My place had been trashed like all of the others, but the destruction had only gone as far as the hallway leading to the rest of the rooms in my apartment. Our best guess is that the vandals/thieves had seen the portrait of me from when I graduated the police academy hanging in the hallway with some other photos, freaked out that I was a cop, and got away from there as fast as they could. And the local LEOs as well as my team believed that had prevented the perps from going after the last two apartments on my floor.

That was at least one good thing that had come out of that ordeal. The last two apartments on my floor – the ones the bad guys would've hit after mine – belonged to elderly neighbors who were basically homebound. This whole thing could've turned ugly if those losers has broken into their places. Thank God their homes had been spared and my neighbors escaped harm.

When I'd received the call from the local LEOs about my place, the whole team had insisted they come with me to help out. We worked the case as much as we were allowed by the cops, but to no avail. The vandals/thieves were never caught.

When the cops had finally left, the team insisted that they help me clean up to the point where my place would at least be habitable once more. Gibbs, sensing my unease at having Ziva and McGee looking through my stuff, sent them out to help my neighbors any way they could.

Despite hundreds of dollars' worth of my movie collection being stolen, the damage to my place had not been too bad. The most damage had been to the cheap coffee table I'd bought from a downstairs neighbor moving to Arizona and to a couple of the shelves from the shelving unit Gibbs had made me almost eight years.

At the sight of the damaged shelves, I'd felt wretched and guilty that Gibbs' generous gift to me had been wrecked, perhaps completely ruined. I wasn't sure how to tell him at first, but apparently he'd figured it out pretty quickly and promised to come over soon to fix them. They were damaged, but not beyond repair.

The same couldn't be said for my coffee table. Gibbs had looked at it and said he could provide a temporary fix, but that it'd be best if I'd started looking for a replacement. Yeah, right. With our schedules, I'm lucky just to go out grocery shopping or doing laundry once in a while. Days off were rare. When would I ever find the time to go furniture shopping?

ooooooo

A small smile comes unexpectedly to my lips as I recall the onetime I was eventually able to go out furniture shopping and had come home with a new leather couch and recliner but no coffee table. Gibbs had later solved my coffee table problem by making one for me as a gift to celebrate my tenth anniversary with NCIS. But as quickly as the smile had appeared, it was gone again once my thoughts turned back to what I'd lost.

With my mom's Christmas candleholder gone, I now only had a few photos and my fading memories left to remember her by. I could still keep my promise to recreate as much as possible that last Christmas with my mother, but now the most important element was gone. And even worse was that my memory of the candleholder had now been tarnished by my discovery of its loss.

Ever since the glass had been broken by a drunk and careless frat brother while I was in college, I'd still continued to light a candle every year. My memory of how it had looked with the glass intact – glowing brightly in a beautiful array of colors – somehow overrode what I was actually seeing – an iron frame in the shape of a Christmas tree. But now, with it gone, that memory refused to come to the forefront of my mind.

Today, whenever I had tried to recall the memory of how it had looked back then, what that last Christmas with my mother had been like, it simply wouldn't come. Only bits and pieces which were incomplete and felt wrong in so many ways would allow themselves to seep into my mind's eye. Images of small shards of colored glass and cold iron were all that I now had left of what had been one of the few truly happy days of my life. It felt like I'd lost her all over again.

It had been difficult enough the first time considering how much my life had changed back then, but now I could never again completely fulfill the vow my eight-year-old self had made. I could watch my movie snuggled up in blankets while eating homemade caramel corn and drinking hot cider, but never again would those elements be united by the warm glow of the candleholder.

ooooooo

Last Christmas, Gibbs had given me the gift of a standing invitation to have Christmas dinner with him every year. And in light of this morning's discovery, I'd almost called to cancel, but couldn't think of an excuse my mentor would remotely believe or not try to fix. So, putting as much of my sorrow as I could behind my usual mask of carefree indifference (with an added touch of holiday cheer), I arrived at Gibbs' house at the appointed time.

I'm absolutely positive Boss knows something is up with me. There was no way I was going to fool myself into believing he didn't know something was wrong with me today. My body kept betraying me despite my best effort to not be comfortable enough to relax my guard around him and to keep my emotions behind my usual walls. I was being much, much quieter than I normally could be around Gibbs when we were alone, and my appetite had almost completely fled even though there was a well-prepared and delicious-smelling meal right in front of me.

Because Gibbs and I had to work this Christmas, Gibbs' father had remained in Stillwater and spent the holiday with his friends. I missed him not only because he was a great guy to talk to, but because he would've deflected some of my friend's attention from me. Jackson had called just before dinner and the two of us had chatted with him for a while.

Speaking to Gibbs' dad had only been a fresh reminder of the fact that my dad had ditched me yet again this year with yet another vague promise to see me at New Years. I wish now that our relationship was better, that he'd put aside his own feelings about Christmas and spend the day with me. But, I figure that will never happen as I am more than likely an all too painful reminder of the wife he'd loved and lost.

I guess I should be thankful that we got to spend our first Thanksgiving together in God only knew how long last month. It was as downright awkward as it could be with my father staying at Gibbs' house at the time. Somehow, someway (and without any physical violence I could detect) they had come to some sort of détente or truce or both and had practically acted like old friends. I knew they did it for my sake, but frankly I was completely weirded out the entire time. It was way worse than the feeling I got when Gibbs was nice to me, and I was 100% certain the bastard knew it.

Suddenly I hear my friend talking, but I have absolutely no clue as to what he's saying until a coffee cup blocks my view of the fireplace. I shake my head a little to clear my thoughts and concentrate on the here and now. I have no idea how long I'd been sitting here, but apparently it'd been long enough for Gibbs to finish cleaning up our mess from dinner.

I'd tried to lend a hand, but had almost dropped the bowl of green beans. Soon after another almost accident, Gibbs had banished me to the living room. I think that had been for the best. I really didn't want my boss to kill me if I broke something that had once belonged to Shannon.

The senior agent had begun speaking again, but this time I'd caught enough of it to know what he was asking. It was time for his traditional question: _What extremely useful, but ultimately incredibly impractical gift did your father send you this year?_

I can't help the smirk that overtakes my mouth when I answer. "I think Senior must have sent me your gift by mistake." At Gibbs' questioning glare, I continue by clarifying, "He sent me a gift card to Lowe's this year. Want it?"

I continue overriding any potential response. "Actually it should be yours anyway to pay you

back for fixing my furniture when my apartment was trashed…"

When a fresh wave of despair crashes over me at the thought of when I'd lost that precious memento, my voice trails off into silence. My loss is still too fresh in my mind for unintentional reminders.

Gibbs has this odd expression on his face and I can tell he wants to say something, but he doesn't. Instead he tilts his head a little and gazes at me like I'm a microbe under a microscope.

Eventually he says, "You know hardware stores do sell other things besides tools and lumber."

My eyes snap up to meet his because that was so not what I was expecting to hear.

I choose not to comment on that fact and nod my head saying with as neutral a tone as possible, "They do? Thanks Boss…uh – Gibbs." I correct myself knowing Gibbs prefers to be called by his given name when we're off duty and especially on holidays. "I'll keep that in mind."

Perhaps a bit of irritableness crept into my voice with that last sentence, but hopefully it will end that topic of discussion.

For the next I don't know how long, we sit in companionable silence sipping our coffees and basking in the warmth of the fireplace. It's nice, but my thoughts keep trying to revisit the feeling of guilt surrounding the fact that I couldn't keep my vow to my mother anymore.

I should've had the candleholder in a more secure location in my apartment. You're supposed to protect your family heirlooms, keep them safe.

I should've had better security on my door or lived in a building with better security in general. Never had it occurred to me that anyone would want to break into such a run-down looking building, one that Gibbs has often tried to get me to move out of and into somewhere better.

I should've been able to find those punk vandals. I've been a cop and federal agent for more than sixteen years now, a damn good investigator, and somehow four thieves manage to get away with what they've done.

I should've realized before now that the candleholder was gone before this morning! How could I not know that? It's been an important part of my life for so long now and I didn't even realize it was gone!

I should've….stayed home.

Gibbs doesn't deserve to have his generous offer of companionship on Christmas day ruined by my grief and guilt over something that has nothing to do with him.

I place my half-full coffee cup on the table before me and lean my elbows on my knees. Gibbs must sense that I'm about to inform him of my immediate departure because he asks, "Ready for pie? Mrs. Williams next door offered it to me in exchange for fixing her screen door last month."

Not wanting to be rude and ungrateful, I reply, "Sure Gibbs. Thanks."

Several minutes later he returns to the living room with the coffee pot and two plates of pie balanced on a gift wrapped box. I start to jump up to help, but he waves me off with a jerk of his head, expertly setting the whole lot down on his coffee table without spilling anything and like he's an old pro at being a waiter. He takes the coffee pot and refills our cups, then hands me a plate of Dutch apple pie. Gibbs then takes his own large piece back to his seat, sits, and wastes no time digging into the flakey, buttery crust.

I'm still not quite hungry and my friend seems to have known that because he gave me a small piece compared to his. I try, but only manage to eat about half. When I've eaten as much as I can, I turn my attention to the expertly-wrapped gift before me.

It's so tastefully and perfectly wrapped with a two-toned striped silver paper and matching silver bow, that it would almost be a sin to touch it. Normally I'd say it was wrapped by whatever store the present came from, but something tells me no minimum wage department store employee touched this particular gift.

Which means that Gibbs must have done this. Which could mean that it's for…

"Are you going to open it or stare at it all night?" my mentor asks with a mouthful of pie.

I hesitate to move because Gibbs really only gives me gifts for the really big occasions, and we don't exchange Christmas gifts. Though I do know that a couple of bottles of good bourbon usually end up right outside his front door every twenty-sixth of December. I figure they're a good exchange for all the stupid crap I say and do throughout the year.

Shoving the last bite of pie in his mouth, Gibbs sets his plate down as he stands up. He then motions for me to sit back and before I can protest that he didn't need to get me a gift, he places it on my knees. It's heavier than I thought it would be and I reach out to grab the gift from him.

"Got it?"

"Yeah," I mumble then get the courage to protest, but words fail me for some reason. "Gibbs, you shouldn't… You didn't need…"

"Just open it," is the gruff and exasperated response to my stammering.

Again I hesitate to unwrap the gift because it would be a shame to ruin the way it looks now. Then the hesitation mutates into the fear that the gift will end up being like the ones my dad gives me – useful but impractical – and that is what ends up keeping my hands from moving for I don't know how long.

A light tap to the back of my head brings me back to the present and I look up to smile sheepishly in apology. I should know better than to think the man who knows me better than anyone else would ever give me a gift that wasn't exactly suited for me.

I take off the bow and set it on the arm of the chair. I then lift up the flaps on the sides before carefully tearing through the paper to reveal what was inside. And what's inside is a wooden box with a design carved into the top. I can't tell what the design is right away because the image is oriented the wrong way.

I look up at Gibbs, who looks back down at me with an expression I've rarely seen on his face. _He's nervous, almost worried._ I think to myself. _But why? Does he think I won't like his gift?_

Gibbs reaches down and turns the box so that the design is properly oriented. The box was obviously made by the man beside me in a light-colored wood of which I wasn't sure of the species. The carved motif on the lid must have taken my mentor hours and hours to painstakingly complete.

At first, it doesn't occur to me that I recognize the central image, but then like a lightning flash it does. It's _my_ tree. _My_ tree is the design carved on the box's lid. A box made just for me by Gibbs has a design on the top that looks like my mother's candleholder.

My stomach drops at the same time the pie and everything else I've eaten this afternoon threatens to make a return appearance. How in the world could Gibbs know what the candleholder looked like?

When I had asked him about knowing anyone who knew how to repair stained glass, I had only told him it was an heirloom candleholder with an iron frame in which all the glass was long gone. I _know_ I didn't tell him the shape or about needing a better box for it and as far as I know there are no photos of it either. So how could he possibly know…?

A sudden thought makes me feel like my blood is starting to drain down out of my head and pool in my feet. I fumble with the box's brass latch and slowly and carefully open the lid almost afraid of seeing what I think I'm going to see.

Initially, all I'm seeing is the black velvet lining, then my eyes are immediately drawn to the object nestled within it. It's the candleholder. _My_ candleholder. The one I'd believed was lost forever was now found in a beautifully carved, handmade box in my lap.

But the candleholder is not how it has looked the last twenty or so years – an iron frame devoid of its glass. Before me now was a version I'd not seen in more than thirty years.

Everything just sort of shuts down as I stare into the contents of the box before me. My mind had apparently decided that thinking and talking was overrated for a few moments. Then I have a flash of how Gibbs could have gotten hold of the candleholder, how he could have done this to me.

Why would he – ? How could he purposely put me in misery like that?

How could he make me think I'd lost one of the last things I have of my mother?

Not entirely conscious of my actions, my hand seems to rise of its own accord and I run a finger lightly over the restored glass. It now looked just like that first time she had lit a candle when I was only seven years old. Suddenly the memories that only recently had seemed tainted and destroyed were now bright and clear in my mind's eye.

But then the manner in which the memories had been taken away in the first place comes front and center.

In denial of the evidence before me, my brain shouts: _No! He didn't… He_ wouldn't _do this to me! But obviously he did. He_ did _do this, and I—_

I close the lid, latch it, and set the box carefully on the coffee table. Then, without thought of the consequences or of anything else, I get up out of my chair and without saying a word or paying much attention to anything around me, I walk out the front door.

I don't realize it when I first step outside, but it's snowing. I know I'm cold, but yet I don't care that I forgot my coat.

I don't care that I don't have my keys so that I can take my car and drive away.

I don't care that I don't have any money so that I can hail cab.

All I care about is leaving behind a person who would do something like that to me. Someone who would deliberately lie to me about something so important to me.

Granted, I had only discovered just today that the candleholder was missing and thought it lost forever, but he's lied to me for _months_ about having it safe in his possession. I know I was looking into getting it fixed, but he went ahead and took the candleholder without telling me and got the glass restored without my permission.

I can hear a voice from a fair distance behind me yelling my name, but I ignore it and keep walking.

I need to be away from the man I'd allowed to crumble my walls and see behind my many masks. I needed to be away from someone who I thought cared about me but instead had hurt me.

I need to keep walking away perhaps forever.

ooooooo

_To be continued…_

**ooooooo**


	2. Give and Take

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Two: Give and Take**

Eight months ago, it was a relatively quiet day during a lunch hour we don't often get to take that I overhear DiNozzo making phone calls to friends asking if they know anyone who does restoration work. Specifically he wants to know if his friends know anyone who specializes in working with or restoring art glass.

I'm curious, but I don't pry. He may be making his calls in the not-so-private bullpen, but it's his lunch hour and he can spend it anyway he chooses to. I have no problems respecting my senior field agent's privacy.

I know he waited for Ziva and McGee to leave before making these calls so I suspect he doesn't want them to know about this and probably doesn't intend on asking them for their help either. He knows that to ask his teammates for help is to invite questions he may not want to answer. Which probably means these inquiries have to do with something very private and personal.

It's likely that my agent knows I can hear his end of the conversation, but then again he knows I won't pry into his private life without some sort of invitation. Over the years, he's increasingly let me past his walls, and I do all I can to keep his trust. If he wants me to know more, he'll come to me when he's ready. And as long as these calls don't put his life in danger, then I'm okay with him not completely confiding in me.

Ten days later, after a long day on the job, Tony pays me a surprise visit to my basement. I'm at my workbench beginning work on my plans for my latest project – a gift for Tony's tenth anniversary with NCIS – when I hear my front door slam shut. Closing the notebook and tucking it away, I get back to repairing the window shutter sitting on sawhorses that had been shaken loose during the last big storm.

When Tony comes in the basement, he says 'hey' as he's coming down the stairs. He seems to have a purpose for coming in mind, but once he reaches the landing, he seems to deflate a little and hesitate. Instead of saying anything, he sits on the landing and watches my progress with the repairs on the shutter. I decide to let the silence rein for the time being and only returned his 'hey' with one of my own. I figure he'll talk when's he's ready.

I've been working steadily for a little while when I stop because I need a tool from the workbench. It's then that Tony haltingly asks me if I know how to work with glass. I unfortunately have to inform him that I'd not really worked with glass other than to replace window panes around my house.

At his crestfallen look, I immediately followed up by saying that a retired friend's wife works for the National Gallery of Art. I was pretty confident she would know some names and that I was willing to reach out to her to find out. I figure this is related to those calls I'd overheard my friend make over a week ago and I'm still curious but I don't want to push him for details. If I do, he might give me some lame excuse and pretend he never asked for or needed my help, but there are a couple things I do need to know.

"Can I ask what you need to have done? Patty will definitely ask so that she'll better know how to help."

DiNozzo pauses long enough that I begin to think he won't answer at all. I move to resume my work when he finally speaks. And what he says— No. Scratch that. How much he shares with me about what he wants to do and why surprises the heck out of me.

We've talked about his childhood before, but up until now he's avoided mentioning much of anything about his mother and the earliest years of his life. Much of what I hear though makes me want to get my sniper rifle out and aim it at Senior.

How can a father deny his son mementos and memories of his own mother? How can a parent deny their child the joys of the Christmas season beginning at such a young age? No wonder my agent doesn't know how to act or what to do during family get-togethers – especially at Christmas time.

I also now certainly understand why he never really mentions his mother. Her untimely death and his father's subsequent actions have made that time in his life painful to remember or talk about. It seems his last good memory of his mother is being snuggled up with her watching _It's a Wonderful Life_. At least I now know why he loves that film so much.

When he finishes speaking, all I can think to say in response to his story is: "Thank you for telling me."

Tony lowers his head and begins to blush so I add, "I won't tell Patty anything more than what she needs to know."

He looks up at me, and with confidence and trust emanating from his eyes, he says, "I know."

His response overwhelms me a little as I break eye contact with him. It makes me proud and yet humbled at the same time that he trusts me with this much of his heart and his past.

Tony then takes a deep breath and explains the situation further, "I finally have enough money to get it repaired, if it can be repaired, and I think it's the right time too."

He goes quiet after that and I offer to feed him, but he declines the invitation and leaves not too long after that. I suppose he was a little overwhelmed himself once he realized just how much personal information he shared with me and needed time to process that fact.

I'm glad he shared more of his life with me since it allowed me the rare privilege to get a peek around what is probably his most heavily fortified internal wall and get to know one of my kids a little better.

ooooooo

Then, five months ago, I made a major mistake.

It didn't seem like a mistake at the time, but more like an opportunity to do something nice for my agent and friend.

I should've known better than to do what I did, but at that time and in that moment, my gut was oddly silent about the whole thing. It was a spontaneous action and I only had the best of intentions. But as I came to see, good intentions can often cause the worst problems and hurt feelings.

One afternoon, DiNozzo had received a call from the local LEOs about his and seven other apartments in his building being vandalized and untraceable items stolen. The whole team insisted on going with him to deal with the cops and perhaps give a hand cleaning up. We weren't able to get jurisdiction over the case, but did work it as much as possible. Unfortunately we were never able to catch the vandals/thieves due to the lack of any evidence beyond the fact that there were four of them.

Every year something major happens or breaks down in his apartment or building and every year I try to convince him to move somewhere nicer or newer, but he refuses and won't tell me why. This time around I decide to skip the argument and just give him this look which he rolls his eyes in response to. I glare back at him, but he only smirks, and I can't help but return it.

Once Tony was given the all clear, he'd begun straightening up his place to make it livable again. Ziva and McGee pitched in, but I could see Tony was uncomfortable about the idea of his teammates having access to his most personal possessions. If they were allowed to help, I was afraid they'd be tempted to go past the curious and cross the line into invasion of privacy. So I sent them out to help the local LEOs and any other residents who may need assistance regaining some semblance of order to their homes. A look of relief had briefly flickered over DiNozzo's face before a look of determination to get the task before him done took over.

I was attempting to put his things back where I thought they'd originally been when I accidentally kick a smallish, beat-up cardboard box. It felt like I should know what was in the box, but I didn't want to pry into Tony's things. I was about to pick it up and ask where I should put it when I see this torn expression on my friend's face.

He was standing just the side of the shelves I'd made him eight years ago and holding one of the ones that had been knocked down by the vandals. It was obviously damaged and the reason for the look on his face suddenly became clear. Tony must be feeling guilty that a gift I'd made especially for him was damaged. From here the damage didn't look too bad, but if the shelving unit was beyond repair, I had no problems starting all over again and building him a new one.

And then the reason Tony wouldn't move out of his apartment clicked in my mind. The shelves. Shelves that were permanently built into a corner of Tony's apartment. Shelves that I'd built that he couldn't take with him if he moved out. I'm beyond touched by his sentiment, but doesn't he realize that I'd build him another shelving unit wherever he ended up?

Probably not. And now he thinks it's his fault my gift to him was damaged.

Idiot.

I'd headslap him, but it would just be adding insult to injury given what he's going through right now.

I walk over to him and take the shelf out of his hands in order to examine it. Damaged, but not too bad. I thought the shelving unit could easily be fixed and told him so promising I'd be over as soon as our schedules allowed. His cheap coffee table hadn't faired so well. I told him I could probably provide a temporary fix, but that in my opinion he needed to get a new one. Tony had snorted at that and I knew he was wondering when he'd have the time to go out looking for furniture. I selfishly hoped he wouldn't find anything before I could give him his gift at the end of October.

Going back to the trashed entry hall closet, I resumed restoring some semblance of order. I picked up the box I'd almost kicked earlier. It was beat up enough that I thought it wise to check its contents for damage. Having barely begun taking the item out if the box, I instantly figured out what it was from my friend's description. This was the candleholder he'd told me about not so long ago. The one he wanted to get restored.

And that's when I made a major mistake.

Impulsively and without thought as to any consequences, I closed the box and with my back to Tony, I started towards his front door. Over my shoulder, I told DiNozzo that I was going to my car to get the tools needed to give his coffee table a temporary fix.

As I made my way down to my car and over the next few days, I reconsidered what I'd done. I knew I should tell Tony I had his mother's candleholder, but I didn't. In my head, I rationalized it as doing something for my good friend, someone I considered to be one of my kids, someone who knew how to keep me on an even keel on the job. In the five months since he'd asked me for information about restoration, he hadn't done anything about it as far as I could tell. I thought I could get it done for him as a way to show him I cared without actually having to say the words. It never even occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to get it back to him before he missed it.

Once I finally had time to examine the candleholder, I saw that it really had the potential to be beautiful once a candle illuminated it. What I couldn't figure out was why Tony allowed for it to be stored in such a flimsy, beat-up cardboard box.

An idea was born with that thought.

My appointment with the glass restorer my friend Patty set up wasn't for a couple of days yet so I decided to spend the time I had until then making precise measurements taking a few photos. My other project needed to be done before I could tackle this new idea, but I was confident I could get it done in time for Christmas.

ooooooo

When my team drew the short straw and was scheduled to work on Christmas Eve, I called my dad to discuss what we were going to do this year. Given the uncertain nature of my job, Dad and I decided that we wouldn't get together this year though both of us were more than willing.

Our conversation naturally turned towards Tony.

"Son, don't forget to make sure that boy of yours remembers he has an invitation to have dinner with you whenever you can get around to it," Dad says.

"I won't forget."

"Are you going to bother getting him a gift or is your prime rib dinner the gift?"

"I'm making something."

"What? He raved to me a couple of weeks ago about the furniture you made for him. Even sent me a couple of photos," Jackson says with an amused tone.

"Yeah, he seemed pretty enthusiastic about the tables when I delivered them to him. Insisted I stay for dinner and break in the new pieces." I smirk at the memory of just how excited Tony was to finally have the furniture he'd only previously seen the plans for.

"So what are you making him? Can I chip in on the materials?"

I roll my eyes and tell him about the candleholder (only that it was broken and was a family heirloom), the circumstances around which I had taken it, and that it was currently in the hands of an art restorer I'd hired. I also mentioned the sorry-looking cardboard box it had been kept in, and my idea for making something more appropriate to house the candleholder.

"Have you lost your damned mind Leroy Jethro Gibbs?"

_Uh-oh… Three names. What did I do now?_

My father barely gives me time to consider what I might have done when he continues on.

"You took that boy's family heirloom, and are getting it fixed without telling him. What happens _when_ , not _if_ , he discovers it to be missing? What do you think is going to happen _when_ and not _if_ he figures out what you've done?

"From the way you described that candleholder, I know that there's more to the story than you are able to tell me. More than once you've mentioned that you wished Tony would open up to you about certain areas of his life and when he finally does… _this_ is how you repay him!"

"Dad, I—"

"No, Leroy. No excuses. You need to confess to what you've done and hope like hell that young man will forgive you."

"Dad, I know what I'm doing. I probably know Tony better than anyone. It'll be fixed and returned to his apartment before he can even miss it. And when he finally gets it out for Christmas, he'll definitely be angry with me at first but I think he'll forgive me once he lights a candle."

My dad sighs, "I don't know, Son. I just think this is going to backfire spectacularly on you."

It turns out my father can be pretty prophetic at times because only a few days later I get a call. The art restorer thought he could find out what the original candleholder looked like in order to properly restore Tony's, but he hadn't managed to find an image of one yet. He'd cut some glass pieces in colors used at the time, and was ready to put them in, but he didn't know where to exactly place them.

Christmas was fast approaching and my window for getting the holder back into Tony's apartment was shrinking. I'd have to reveal what I'd done, if I couldn't find out what the original looked like.

Since my dad was the only other person who knew what I was planning, I let him know about the snag I'd hit. And thank God, I did. One of my dad's lady friends had an extensive collection of candleholders and quite a few of them were Christmas-themed. Despite his disapproval of my plan, he decided to help me anyway and ask his friend for help. Not for my sake, but for Tony's.

I sent him copies of the photos I'd taken and, a couple of days later, Dad calls me back with the good news that Helen had a holder just like Tony's. I passed her photos on to the art restorer as soon as I could, but knew it was now too late to get the candleholder back to Tony's place in time for Christmas.

It was only a matter of time before Tony discovered that his mother's candleholder was gone. It was only a matter of time before my actions would devastate my agent and friend. I've never wanted to cause him any pain, but it seems inevitable now.

I want to confess. I _should_ confess and hope for forgiveness, but for some reason I don't. And I'm not exactly sure why. My gut remains frustratingly quiet about the whole thing, and I have no idea if I'm making the right decision to stay quiet about what I've done.

Usually I keep an eye out for all of my kids and how they're doing, but as the last few days before Christmas pass by, I found myself focusing most of my attentions on Tony. So far, it seemed like he was doing fine and was showing no signs of emotional distress. Either his mask, which I can usually see past, is that good or he hasn't yet discovered his precious heirloom is missing.

Meanwhile, restoration on the candleholder had been successfully completed. Another disaster almost occurred because our caseload prevented me from picking it up until very early in the morning on Christmas Eve just as the art restorer was leaving to catch a cab to the airport. I'd somehow managed to finish the box I'd made for the candleholder in between working case after case. Now all I had to do was wrap Tony's gift.

Having to work on Christmas Eve was not easy, especially with the bad weather, but we managed to wrap up our current case before dawn on Christmas Day. Once my team got their preliminary paperwork out the way, I kicked them out of the office and told them to be two hours late on Monday morning. Exhausted, the team headed out as quickly as possible to get some sleep before enjoying their day off with their family and friends.

I left the building as soon as I could as well. I had a gift to wrap and a dinner to prepare. And just maybe, a friend to lose.

From the moment I heard Tony come in my front door, I could just tell that he was dying on the inside. I could hear it in his every movement even before I'd come face to face with him. Valiantly he tried to hide what he was feeling – the devastation – but I'd known him too long and I could still see it seeping through the widening cracks in his mask. Right then and there I almost fessed up, but finally my gut kicked in a little and told me I should let this situation play out.

If I needed any proof of DiNozzo not acting like himself, all I had to do was listen to the silence of my house. Yes, Tony could more than fill the void with conversation, but often when it was just the two of us, I'd learned that he could also sit back and enjoy making only the occasional comment. But today, it seemed like Tony wanted to be anywhere but here and was trying to make fade unnoticed into the background.

I couldn't have been more thankful for the distraction of my Dad calling just before dinner. I know my dad and my agent enjoy talking to each other and Tony did an admirable job rallying enough to keep up his end of the conversation. It was killing me to see him like this – full of pain and guilt and a host of other negative emotions. But I knew that my gift would ease it, though anger would soon replace the dejection.

Further proof of Tony being un-Tony-like (as Abby would probably say) came at dinner when he barely ate half the amount I've seen him put away with a home-cooked meal before him. When I'd finished, Tony rose to help me clean up and almost dropped a dish because his mind was pretty firmly entrenched elsewhere. I sent him to the living room in hopes that the warmth of the fireplace might help him to relax if only a little.

As I cleaned up, I began taking covert glances to check on my friend, but after the first few times, I gave up and did it openly. He may have been at my house in body, but his spirit – and perhaps his heart – were elsewhere.

As far as I could tell, Tony never moved in all the time it took me to clean up the dinner table and kitchen. When I had finished, I let the coffee maker do its job and rejoined Tony. I tried to get his attention, but he couldn't hear me because he was far away from here in his thoughts. Instead of the headslap I normally would give him for inattention to his surroundings, I went back to the kitchen to get us each a coffee.

It took my putting the coffee cup directly in front of Tony's eyes for him to start to snap back to the present. Once I thought he was back enough in the present, I asked my traditional question. His answer combined with a small smirk gave me hope that my Tony was still in there somewhere.

At least this year the gift from his dad wasn't completely useless and was only impractical in that I think my friend had only ever once set foot in a hardware store. When he mentioned his apartment being trashed as he offered the card to me, I had to work hard to suppress what I was thinking and feeling and probably spent too long considering my agent and also what I was going to say next.

I wanted to say a hundred different things, but in the end I reminded him that hardware store sold other things besides lumber something I was confident he didn't expect to hear. Tony snapped off an irritable reply and I let the topic drop.

We sat in companionable, if somewhat angst-ridden silence, for a while basking in the warmth of my fireplace. Suddenly, Tony places his coffee cup on the table and leans his elbows on his knees. He looks so exhausted and I begin to doubt he was able to get any sleep before coming over this afternoon. I think he's about five minutes from telling me he's going to leave so I offer him pie made by my next door neighbor.

He looks torn for a moment before his manners kick in and he agrees to have some pie. Once in the kitchen, I take advantage of Tony's inattention and quickly grab the gift that I know he'll love but that may also cost me his respect and trust. Then, in consideration of Tony's lack of appetite, I dish out a slice of pie about half the size of mine. I balance both plates and the coffee pot on top of the gift and bring them out to the living room. I can see Tony wants to help me with my awkward burden but with a jerk of my head, I warn him off and set everything down without spilling anything. I've never forgotten the skills I leaned working at the local diner those couple of summers before joining the Marines.

Tony tries and manages to eat around half the slice of pie and all the while he stares at the wrapped gift before him on the coffee table. I know what he must be thinking, wondering if it's for him, so I ask:

"Are you going to open it or stare at it all night?"

Still he hesitates, so I shove the last bite of pie in my mouth and motion for him to sit back in his chair. Before he can say anything against it, I've picked up the box and set it on his knees.

"Got it?" I ask hoping he'll then get a good grip on it since the gift is heavier than it looks.

"Yeah," he mumbles then tries to protest my giving it to him.

I interrupt him in a slightly rougher toned, "Just open it," than I'd intended because I know that in just a few moments I'll find out the fate of our friendship. The pie is definitely not sitting well in my stomach right now.

DiNozzo becomes a little lost in his thoughts so I bring him back with a light headslap to which he smiles sheepishly in response. He semi-carefully unwraps the gift and looks at it with some confusion. He looks up at me and at first I think he's already figured out what I've done and I'm nervous our friendship will be at an immediate end, but then I realize the design is not properly oriented to him.

I reach down and turn the box so the design is facing the right way and sit back down to await my fate. Will he see that what I did, I did with good intentions? Will he ever forgive me for basically lying to him all this time? Will he ever again trust me with anything remotely personal once he knows my actions caused him such despair?

Watching his face, I can tell the nanosecond in which he figures out what the design I carved into the top of the box represents. He looks shocked, and then almost immediately after that, he looks like he's going to be sick. He must have figured out that his mother's candleholder is in the box and I'm the one who made him think it was long gone.

I definitely know he's figured it out when he goes even paler and looks inside the box after he fumbles with its latch. Once he sees the restored candleholder, I watch as he lifts his hand and with a brief look on his face bordering on wonder, he runs a finger over the recently installed glass.

After probably some of the longest moments of my life, his face goes disturbingly blank and emotionless. He closes the box, latches it and sets it carefully on the coffee table. Then he completely surprises me by suddenly standing and then hurrying out of my house.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't take his coat which holds his wallet, keys and cell phone. If I didn't know any better, I would say he calmly walked out, but that is definitely _not_ the case. If I had to guess, I would say that everything that he's been through in the last couple of days, the emotional rollercoaster of losing and then finding his tangible reminder of his mother, has completely overwhelmed him. And being that overwhelmed caused his flight instinct to kick in.

I hurry to the door and yell at him to come back, that it's much too cold outside and that he needs his coat. But he can't hear me. Or maybe he doesn't want to hear me.

He just keeps walking heedless of the snowfall, the temperature, and probably most of his surroundings.

I head back into the house long enough to grab both our coats and begin trying to catch up to him before something bad happens to him.

ooooooo

_To be concluded…_

**ooooooo**


	3. Rescued and Restored

**ooooooo**

**Chapter Three: Rescued and Restored**

If someone were to interrogate me about my whereabouts once I left Gibbs' house, I don't think I could have provided myself with a solid alibi.

All I really remember is that I walked.

It didn't matter that Gibbs tried to get me to come back inside. It didn't matter where I went. It didn't matter that the weather was too cold or that it was snowing.

Nothing mattered anymore except that I needed to keep walking. Needed to think and needed to be away from someone I thought I could trust with everything.

More than a little overwhelmed right now, I couldn't stop my thoughts from coming regardless of how hard I tried.

I had thought that one of the only tangible links to my mother was gone forever. I was grieving for its loss. Devastated that I would never again be able to completely keep my promise to honor Christmas the way we did that last time before she died.

And yet…

How could Gibbs do that to me? Up until however long ago, I would say that my mentor and friend would never do that to me. He would _never_ cause me that kind of pain.

And yet…

He did.

ooooooo

By the time I get back outside with Tony's coat and scarf and am shrugging my own on, I've managed to lose track of my missing and vulnerable friend. I know which direction he took off in and I'm praying my gut won't fail me again in regards to him.

And what an epic failure my good intentioned idea turned out to be. I never should've taken Tony's candleholder.

Tony hates it when I'm nice to him and now he has a perfectly legitimate reason to do so. My trying to be nice caused him heartache and me my friend. I never wanted to hurt him, but rarely in life do we ever get exactly what we want.

How can I possibly ever make this up to him? Will he ever again let me see passed his mask or get around his walls?

_O God…_ What if he not only ended our friendship, but wanted to leave my team or NCIS?

I don't think I or the team could survive without him around to distract us from the horrors of our job or without him to find that elusive bit of evidence or wild theory that helps us solve the case.

Even if he doesn't want to remain friends, I have to convince him to stay with the team. We can't function without him and I don't even want to try.

Hopefully I can find him and he allows me the chance to try to explain my actions. Deep down he has to know I would never do anything to intentionally cause him any harm. I never meant to turn his world upside down so thoroughly on day that represents peace and family.

He means too much to me. There's no way I'm letting him go without a fight.

ooooooo

I know I should feel cold – freezing, in fact – but I don't.

And as inattentive to not only the cold but my surroundings as I am, it's not all that surprising to me when I find myself suddenly on my knees in the gutter. As during the case where that Marine, Atlas, went missing I'm reminded of what my father said all those years ago. He told me I'd end up in the gutter and for the second time in my life, I have. In the literal sense if not the way my father probably intended the remark all those years ago.

Back then Gibbs, when I'd been taken, managed to find me in that maze of sewer tunnels. And he's managed to find me every time I've ever been lost. I feel so lost now, but do I want him to find me once again?

I get to my feet, ignoring the twinge I feel in my right leg and the cold and wet seeping through the fabric of my jeans. I keep walking and my mind keeps racing with too many thoughts to concentrate on at one time. In the fading light of the day, I can see an open area ahead of me – a park? – and I start heading towards it.

ooooooo

Now that it's getting dark, I'm starting to worry that I won't find him. The way Tony just up and left my house, I'm concerned he won't think to come in out of the cold. The weather report said it was going to be below freezing tonight. My friend was without a coat and the clothing he was wearing would hardly be enough to ward off the cold temperatures. He'd never last the night out here. Even if he hates me right now and doesn't want to see me ever again, I've got to find him and get him warmed up. I can't let him be hurt further because of my idiotic actions.

When I get to the proverbial fork in the road, I have to make a decision. It's too dark to see footprints in the snow despite the street lights. I could go north or I could go east. Without much thought, I turn east and hope that my gut has not failed me.

One hundred yards later, I know where Tony went. There's a park not too much farther down the street. I'm certain he's there.

Mindful of the snow and ice, I start to carefully jog the remaining distance between us hoping that as I close the physical gap, I can come up with a way to close the emotional distance that likely now exists between us.

ooooooo

When I reach the park, it's almost completely dark outside. All that remains of the day is that last dark blue band of sky that the sun is shrinking away from allowing for the black of night to take over completely for a time.

The street lamps are all on except for the one by the swing set. It's in that direction that I find myself walking.

There is only a faint glow of light on the swing set which is probably due to the street lamp near the slide. For the most part, though, the area around the swings is dark. The seats of the swings have several inches of snow sitting on them and when I step up to the one farthest from the light, I grab the seat and tip it so that the snow joins what's already on the ground.

Once I'm sitting, my thoughts go against my will and start replaying the day as if I was seeing a movie in a theater. The discovery of my loss and the feelings associated are almost a perfect counterbalance to the feelings of anger and betrayal of what Gibbs had done. At this point, I don't think our relationship – working or personal – could ever be the same again. I'm not even sure that I even want him in my life anymore.

Then, unbidden my thoughts turn towards the ten plus years I've known Gibbs and all the times he's rescued me, kept me focused, sheltered me, and in his own unique way comforted me. He's the only one…the only one that I…trust. Or used to. He was the only one I trusted with my life and the 'real' me in all (or mostly all) its unvarnished, unembellished glory. For someone so gruff, he can be surprisingly gentle. And sometimes I think the only two people he was ever as gentle with were Shannon and Kelly. I can't describe how incredibly humbling and yet, at the same time, how frightening that notion is to me.

And finally, my thoughts continue their traitorous ways and contemplate what a future without Gibbs would be like. Because of what happened, I'd leave NCIS or ask for a transfer. And knowing how Vance barely tolerates me at the best of times, I'd probably end up an agent in some locale that I'd totally hate. I'd probably be trading the freezing winters for sweltering summers. As the newbie, who would watch my six? Would I get along with the rest of my team? Would they even be as great a team as the one I'm contemplating leaving? For some reason I see myself living alone, having let my old relationships go by the wayside, and not cultivating any new friendships of any kind. A few years down the line, I'm starting to drink too much, starting to be too careless out in the field, and I end up dead because I had no one to keep me focused or safe on the job.

I snort and smirk a little as I realize my thoughts have done their own version of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_. And like Ebenezer Scrooge, my own personal ghostly memories and ideas of the present, past and future have shown me something I needed to learn. Something that I think I knew all along.

ooooooo

When I immediately spotted the figure sitting on a swing in the near-dark corner of the park, to say that I was relieved would be a massive understatement.

As I approached Tony, I could see that he was shivering uncontrollably and could hear the chain of the swing faintly rattling. He was hunched over with his head down and his hands lying in his lap. I was torn between calling his name to get his attention and continuing to approach him as silently as possible. I didn't want him to take off and yet I didn't want to startle him either.

I chose the latter as I don't even think he knew I was there. I came up to his side and draped his scarf around his neck and his coat around his shoulders. Immediately he grabbed the coat and wound it tighter around his body.

With a gloved hand, I brushed the snow off the swing next to Tony and sat down. He turned his head slightly to look at me, but otherwise didn't say anything about my presence there beside him.

Because of his shivering and the near-dark, I couldn't tell anything of what he might be thinking or feeling. I couldn't tell if my friend was getting ready to hit me or not for what I'd done to him. I hurt him and deserved a fist in my face if that would make up for things and made him feel better.

But instead, he surprised me.

In a calm voice only slightly distorted by his still chattering teeth, he said, "You should not have taken it."

I'd been expecting yelling or a fist, not this calm tone of voice.

"I know," I said acknowledging the truth of his statement.

"You should not have lied to me by omission," he continued raising his head a little from its previous bowed position.

"I know," I said, knowing I had no excuse for what I'd done.

"You should have told me," he said staring out into the night in front of him.

"I know," I agreed with his words whole-heartedly and hoped my friend knew that.

Finally he looks at me and says, "You could've asked."

Willing for him to hear how guilty and regretful I felt with those two words, I nearly whispered, "I know."

He nods and I feel as though we've had a much more in-depth conversation than his four not-so-simple phrases and my two-word responses.

Then Tony smiles.

It's not his usual big, cheesy grin that he shows to the majority of the world. It's also not the open, honest smile he often gives me, but it's pretty close.

He says, "Thank you."

Not expecting those two words at all or the smile, I stare back at him with an expression that I'm sure is a perfect combination of confusion and curiosity.

"Thank you, Gibbs." He says and turns to stare back out into the night, his expression turning sober in the dim light my eyes have finally adjusted to. "I understand why you did what you did and am grateful you did it. That you had my mother's candleholder has been restored to its former glory after all these years. I just wish you could've found some other way. You really hurt me Gibbs and I know you didn't intend to do it and know you did what you did with good intentions, but you hurt me and it's going to be a while before I can forget what happened."

"Tony, I'm—"

My friend's hand stretches out towards my arm, but the distance between the swings is too much for him to reach across. The attempt is not wasted though and it stops me from continuing whatever I was about to say. And, I'm glad because I'm almost afraid to ask him what I truly wanted to know. Was he staying? Was he going to stay not only at NCIS but on my team? I don't want to lose someone so essential.

"Before you do something really asinine like quoting Rule 18 at me or using the 'Friends Exception' for Rule 6, just hear me out."

I nod my head once and Tony begins speaking again.

"Not being able to forgive and forget right away does not mean that I won't forgive you someday. You broke my trust, Gibbs, and it's going to take a lot of effort on both our parts for it to be repaired. Professionally I still trust you completely, but personally…"

He trails off and my head bows in defeat despite the implication that he's not leaving the team.

"Personally," he repeats then continues, "I think it will be a while before I can let you in like I used to."

That statement, more than anything else, breaks my heart. All that progress between us destroyed by my actions.

ooooooo

I know I've upset Gibbs by what I've just said, but I needed him to know where we stood in our friendship. We've taken a giant leap backward, but I've the feeling it won't be too long before we're back to almost where we were before this afternoon. And I am certain our friendship will be all the stronger in the future because of what's happened today.

Though my friend – and it still felt right to think of him as such – had thoughtfully and thankfully brought me my coat and scarf, I still felt like an ice cube at one of the Poles. My shivering may have lessened a bit, but at my core, I was still very, very cold. And I was feeling stiff from sitting so long in this weather.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gibbs stand and I can tell he's accepted what I've said and is determined, like I am, to regain our close relationship.

He shivers and says, "Come on, let's get you warmed up. You don't need to get sick on top of everything else." He takes off his gloves one at a time and hands them to me, waits for me to put them on, before starting to walk towards his house.

I stand and put my arms in my coat sleeves before buttoning it up and adjusting my scarf to hang more snugly around my neck. As I begin to follow Gibbs, my right leg buckles a bit from sudden pain. I must have let out some sort of sound as my mentor is suddenly there gripping my shoulders to keep me from face planting into the snow.

Worry is embedded in every part his face as he asks, "You OK?"

"Don't know. My leg."

Gibbs switches his grip and leads me to a bench under a street light. He brushes off the snow before making me sit and crouches down to look at my legs. When he moves the lower flap of my long coat out of the way, I'm shocked to see a red stain starting at my knee which runs half-way or more to my foot. There's a rip in my jeans and Gibbs starts trying to move the fabric aside to see how badly I'm hurt, but the material is stuck to the wound. I let out a hiss and he immediately stills his hands.

He looks apologetic as he says, "If I help, can you make it back to my house? I'll be better able to handle it there."

I nod and he reaches down to help me stand. I pretty much don't care as all I really want is to be warm again. As he helps me limp back to his house, I think back to try to remember when I hurt myself, but can't. The way it feels now, I don't even know how I made it so far without ever noticing the pain from whatever injury I've acquired.

If it weren't for Gibbs coming to the rescue and for being too stubborn to let me go, I don't think I would have made it back on my own. I know I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for Gibbs, but despite that fact, I'm thankful he was there for me yet again. And his not admonishing me for taking off into the freezing weather or for getting hurt seems like the first small step forward toward reconnecting.

ooooooo

As I'm helping Tony limp back to my house, each pained hiss reminds me that it's my fault he hurt his leg. It's seems like I can't stop hurting my kid today. I don't know what I expected would happen due to my actions, but the two of us ending up in a snow-covered park freezing our asses off was definitely not it.

I thought he would be angry with me and perhaps yell at or hit me, but I didn't expect his reaction to be so…extreme – for him to just take off. When I finally found him sitting there on that swing, I still expected yelling or worse, but the way he calmly and firmly reprimanded me was not what I imagined would happen.

As we sat next to each other on those swings, what he said in that quiet, resolute voice that was only hampered by teeth-chattering cold impacted more than any punch he could've thrown. But it also gave me hope. Hope that what I broke between us could be restored even though it meant it would be a long time before he would let me completely passed his walls once more.

Tony was still shivering despite having his coat and scarf, and his limping was getting worse as we continued on. After a moment of thought, I began to speak in order to try and distract ourselves from the cold and his pain.

"Did I tell you I added a rule?" I ask, knowing I hadn't shared this particular one at the time I wrote it because everything surrounding its addition to the list had been surrounded by such raw emotion at the time.

"N-n-no."

"Rule 51: Sometimes – you're wrong," I inform him wondering what his response to it will be.

"Guh-good one. I think it ru-really applies to t-today," he carefully says, but I can still clearly hear the clicking of his teeth.

"Yep. It does," I confirm with a slight grin that matches DiNozzo's emerging one, and I feel as if we've taken a small step forward toward reconnecting.

ooooooo

You'd never guess that Gibbs could be such a Mother Hen, but I've learned over the years that he can be very overprotective when one of his kids is sick, injured or in trouble. And right now, because I was injured and because of all the drama we'd been through today, Gibbs was on Mother Hen overdrive mode right now.

As soon as we entered the house, he ushered me upstairs and sat me on the toilet lid in the bathroom. He started the shower adjusting the temperature and helped me take off my coat and scarf. Then he grabbed a wash cloth and saturated it with warm water from the sink. He applied it to the fabric of my jeans to moisten the blood and help unstick the fabric from my wound so I could take my pants off without making my injury worse.

He left me to undress and shower saying he'd be back once I was done. The lukewarm water felt hot on my chilled skin, but eventually I was able to tolerate hotter and hotter water and was pretty confident I was back to close to my normal body temperature by the time I got out.

The hot water also helped to loosen up my leg up somewhat and balancing myself with a hand on the bathroom wall, I stepped out of the shower without incident. Where my damp clothes had once been, there was now sitting on the sink a set of sweat clothes I kept here at the house, underclothes, and two pairs of clean socks (one of them a pair of Gibbs' wool socks). Also on the counter, was a steaming hot cup of coffee. Somehow Gibbs had used his ninja Marine moves to sneak into the bathroom without me ever realizing it.

Once I finish dressing, I stand and go to the bathroom door intending on calling out for Gibbs, but he was right outside the door when I opened it. He motioned me to sit on the lid of the toilet and quickly and efficiently took care of my leg injury. It was nothing serious, just a huge, dark bruise centered just below my knee, multiple, shallow cuts, and a long but not-deep-enough-for-stitches gash along the upper part of my tibia which had been the primary source of all that blood on my jeans.

Finally we made it back downstairs and Gibbs made me stretch out on the sofa with a thick blanket covering me, a fresh up of hot coffee, and the fireplace roaring once more. In the time that I'd been taking a shower, he'd changed his clothes and was wearing sweatpants that advertised the Marines while mine advertised Ohio State and a couple of layered t-shirts. He also managed to make coffee, clear the wrapping paper, set the box he'd made me with my mother's candleholder inside on the dinner table, leave me a couple of OTC pain relievers on the coffee table, and sneak some freshly warmed by the dryer clothes into the bathroom. Definitely on Mother Hen overdrive.

I fought to hide my contented smile, because even though I hated Gibbs being nice to me, I secretly loved it when he was in this mode. I just wish he'd tone it down just a little…

Lying on the couch snuggled up in blankets in front of Gibbs' fireplace, I was warm, cozy and beginning to feel as if I could drop off to sleep any minute.

But something kept me from drifting off completely, kept me awake. Something that I felt I had left undone.

ooooooo

Once I got Tony camped out on the couch in front of my fire, I began to relax a little as I sat in the chair watching over my friend.

He wasn't injured as bad as I had feared, seemed to be resting comfortably, and was likely back to a normal body temperature once more. The only worry about his health I still had was that he'd develop some sort of illness because of his adventure outdoors. His scarred lung tissue didn't need a chest cold on top of all the turmoil he'd recently been through.

For a while, it seemed just like old times with us sitting in companionable silence enjoying our coffee. Then I realized I was fooling myself as it would be a while before it would be just like old times between us once more.

Then, not much later, Tony interrupts the near silence and asks for me to bring over the present I'd given him. I was surprised, but quickly retrieved the requested item. My friend sets his coffee cup on the table and sits up a little as I lean over to hand him the box before retaking my seat.

I openly watch him, and for the longest time all he does is stare at the box's lid with a variety of expressions that won't stay put long enough for me to figure out what he's thinking. Then, like earlier this afternoon with the candleholder, he lifts a hand and runs his fingers lightly over the carving I'd made to represent its contents.

He then lays his hand flat over the design for a few moments, and I can see a small but brief smile on his face before he lifts the brass latch and opens the box. Once the box is open, Tony spends a few minutes just staring at the candleholder. His eyes are moist and they seem as if they are focused somewhere else and at a time long past. Then, as with the box lid, he lifts his hand and runs his fingers over the newly restored glass before laying his hand flat over the entire thing. That small smile from not too long ago makes a reappearance.

Suddenly it seems as if he's come to a decision. Turning towards me, he asks, "Gibbs do you have a candle?"

ooooooo

Earlier I'd been so overwhelmed by the box Gibbs had made for me and its contents that I barely had taken in either of their appearances before bolting from the house. Now that I wasn't freezing cold anymore and was comfortable on the couch, it took me a while, but I figured out what I'd left undone.

I asked Gibbs for my present he'd made, and really took my time admiring the craftsmanship of the box. I have loved everything my friend and father-figure has ever made for me, but this was probably the finest of them all so far. Despite the angst and turmoil surrounding the giving of this gift, I knew I'd treasure it forever. I couldn't help the smile that fought its way to the surface of my mouth.

Then, I opened the box. I had to fight the sudden lump in my throat at the sight of the candleholder which had not been whole for at least twenty-five years prior to today. Whoever had done the restoration had done an amazing job. It looked just like how I remember it looking all those years ago before it was broken. Seeing my mother's candleholder whole once more, I knew I had made the right decision to want to get it repaired earlier in the year. Though he'd gone about it in an utterly erroneously way, Gibbs had done a good thing. We'd get past this bump in the road eventually.

Once I'd reacquainted myself with the candleholder, I surprised myself by asking Gibbs for a candle. Even though he was obviously surprised by my request, he quickly jumped up and went into the kitchen. After hearing several drawers open and close and what sounded like something being chopped, he came back into the living room with a shortened tapered candle. Ah yes, now I get why I thought I heard a knife.

With the box securely in my hands, I sat up and faced the coffee table. I set my box down and gently lifted the candleholder out of it. Gibbs handed me the candle and I set it in the appropriate place. A lighter magically appeared in front of me and with a smirk, I grabbed it from Gibbs' hand. Then I lit the candle.

It burned high and bright for a couple of moments until the wick burned down a little. The way I was sitting, it was difficult to really appreciate how the candlelight made the restored glass glow so I asked Gibbs to do me a favor.

"Gibbs, could you—?" I asked indicating the mantel of the fireplace.

An odd expression flickered over his face before he nodded and carefully picked up the candleholder. He walked over to the fireplace mantle and set it up to share the center along with a photo of Shannon and Kelly.

I'd never shared the lighting of the candleholder with anyone else but my mother before tonight. Somehow Gibbs must have known I'd never before shared this piece of me with anyone else and had responded in kind by letting it sit side by side with the most important part of him.

After I resituated myself on the couch, I gazed upon the brightly-colored light emanating from my mother's candleholder. Crystal clear memories of her flooded my mind, and it felt as if I had been given another gift this Christmas.

I felt positive that my mother would've approved of me sharing for the first time the warm, brightly colored glow with Gibbs – someone I considered a mentor, friend, and father-figure. And it seemed like a giant step forward in healing the broken trust between us. With his help, I was able to keep my promise this year which was of utmost importance to me.

I was now definitely getting sleepy and hoped Gibbs wouldn't mind me taking over his usual sleeping accommodations for just a little while. Gibbs, for his part, looked completely content to continue his Mother Hen routine by staying in the chair beside me instead of going to bed upstairs. And, I was okay with that except it was going to be difficult to leave my usual gift to him of two bottles of the best bourbon outside his front door without him seeing me.

ooooooo

Tony looked too comfortable to move to his bedroom upstairs, and I couldn't bear to leave him alone even though he didn't seem to suffer any ill effects from his exposure to the cold or from his fall. I decided that I would stay with him and make sure nothing more happened to him tonight.

Suddenly a random thought jumped into my head that made me smile. How was Tony going to get the bourbon outside my front door without me seeing him?

Tony's eyes keep opening and closing with the length of time they remain closed getting longer and longer. His eyes were closed for nearly a minute, when they suddenly opened and he sleepily mumbled, "Merry Christmas, Gibbs."

"Merry Christmas, Tony," I responded quietly as my kid's eyes closed once more.

After I thought he'd been asleep for a few minutes, I get up to blow out the candle and then bending over Tony, I adjust his blanket higher and tuck it in a little. Briefly I remember how my little girl used to look when I tucked her in, and how she used to squirm a little before settling down. The memory doesn't sadden me for once and I smile fondly as Tony does the same squirming thing.

When I sit back down, he shifts to his side and is facing me. His eyes open half-mast and he gives me a sleepy smile.

Then, with a sleep-slurred voice, he quietly says something to me that lets me know the gulf between us isn't as wide as either of us thought.

"Thanks Gibbs. For everything."

ooooooo

_The End._

**ooooooo**

A reminder – just in case: _Rule 6_ is 'Never say you're sorry.' aka 'Don't apologize. It's a sign of weakness.' _Rule 18_ is 'It's better to seek forgiveness, than ask for permission.'

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on fanfiction.net on December 27, 2011.
> 
> No beta, so all mistakes are my fault.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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